Collapsible Plans
by queenofgrey
Summary: Bella & Edward lead opposite lives. She stays & he goes, intersecting from time to time, & they forever press the pause button on what could be. They could collapse all of their plans & try to press play, but will they?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

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**Sunday – August 28, 2005 – Forks, Washington**

The night starts with a clatter, a shatter of glass. Thin shards – shrapnel – jut from Bella's bare leg, and blood trickles out around the pieces, runs warmly down her shin in thin, intersecting lines. She barely notices, though – although, she feels it – because she's too hurried to be bothered with the remains of cheap perfume soaking into her bedroom's hardwood floor. She'll pull the pink-tinted glass from her skin later, the perfume will evaporate before she returns; all of it will be forgotten in time. For now, she shoulders her bag and exhales sharply, sets her hat askew _just so_, and carries on. They're waiting for her; she'll let her leg bleed.

"It's late," her father tells her as her shoes thud against the staircase, as if she's still a child – and one that needs looking after, at that. She's long since been grown, blossomed, and she clocks in at twenty-two, a point her mouth opens to remind him of when she finds him bent over the kitchen table. He forgets the twenty on nights like this one, when her hair is in wild curls and her makeup-rimmed eyes hold mystery. Before she can speak, though, he remembers. "Right. Well, you be safe, and call if you need anything."

"I'll make you pancakes in the morning." She kisses him on his cheek, and walks over to the far wall to flip on the overhead light. He stops squinting at the newspaper in his hand and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes show from smiling, instead of strain. "Leave me the crossword."

"Seventeen across is _subterfuge_," he laughs, and Bella plugs her ears with the tips of her fingers, _la-la-la_'s loud and dramatic. He's given her "seventeen across" every day since she started doing the puzzles in pen at age seventeen; his answers are always ten letters, and they're wrong. It's their game and they play it, and they both smile each time. "I'll leave the porch light on."

"I'll try to make it home before sunrise to need it."

On the porch, Bella settles her hat again and tucks a curl behind her ear, lights a cigarette and checks the time on her wristwatch. Then, she goes, runs, and the smoke from her mouth trails behind her. Her boots are lovely, soft leather and entirely impractical, and her toes cramp before she reaches Nottingham. There, she stalls, lets the heel of one boot crush out her cigarette on the pavement as she pulls off the other. She flexes her toes, leaning on the stop sign for balance, and rights her shoes once more. She walks the rest of the way, a mile or so over dirt and through trees, and knows she's late because of it.

Her friends – Mike, Angela, Ben, and Eric – tell her so, with animatedly tapping toes and the checking of imaginary watches, when she reaches the river. In this place, time doesn't exist or weigh down, and they all know it, but she's one of the last of them to arrive. She joins them on the makeshift dock, the one they built parallel to the shoreline, and takes a beer from the cooler, twists the cap off on her forearm, like Eric taught her to, and sits on Mike's knee. He twirls his fingers in the ends of her mahogany hair, as she drinks quickly in a bid to catch up and listens to Angela fret about sinning in the eyes of God – Ben's arm across her shoulders, his thumb grazing her breast – while Eric builds a fire. Bella smiles around the lip of her beer bottle and looks to the glinting stars, her back resting against Mike's chest.

She closes her eyes and lets the warmth surround her and keep her – a fire, a body, memories folding themselves into the recesses of her mind. It feels like the end of every summer before and the beginning of everything, and she hopes that time holds still, steady, and that the cold won't come. It does, though, in time, because all of the begging and willing and wishing can't keep this moment alive. It crackles and burns for what it is, a simple span of time, but eventually, like the fire before her, it fades and dies. She knows its ashes will remain, though, and they'll await her at the riverside for the summer next – even if she won't return to find them.

"This is the end of an era," Bella says absently, her voice quiet, but everyone hears. No one tells her she's wrong, either; this is the end. They'll have jobs in the city; they'll wed and move on. Their childhood – though, fledgling for a while – will come to a close with this night, and they raise their bottles and keep their tears at bay. "To us," she says, clinking the neck of her beer across Mike's. "To what was."

"No—to what will be," Angela counters, leaving Ben and crossing the creaking planks to knock her bottle against Bella's. "To endless possibilities."

"To a fucking amazing _finale_," Jessica hollers from the break in the trees, then runs to them. She's the hugging kind, always with open arms that lasso and bind, and she folds them around each of them in kind. At long last, they encircle Bella and with her chin on Jessica's shoulder, she sees the man that lingers in Jessica's wake. The ends of rich auburn hair curling out from beneath a pitch-colored hat, translucent eyes in a color she can't place, and long, lean limbs attached to a modest frame. He's too much and nothing at all, and Bella looks away before she sees him smile at her. This night is about Jessica's warm arms, and the others; it is not a time to feel anything but a keen twinge of nostalgia. She savors Jessica's affection, until Jessica releases her and says, "That's Edward. Someone give him a beer."

"Party-crasher," Ben smiles, as if he's calling the stranger by his name, and hands him a bottle of lager. "Good to know you; I'm Ben."

Bella rises from Mike's knee and walks down their dock until it ends, sits beside the plank where she carved their initials with a butter knife so many summers before. She runs her pointer finger over the letters and watches the way the moon plays on the water snaking beneath her feet. She reflects, as it does, on how the people twenty feet off build her, held her together, and she cries without noticing the tears falling upon her knees. They seep down, drift, and mix with the dried blood on her skin, and that runs too.

"You're bleeding," says a voice she cannot place, and that alone gives him away. Edward, with his pretty hair and long legs and no last name, sits beside her. His face conveys concern that she can't see, for her eyes are shut tight. He frowns at her, anyway, and asks, "Are you alright?"

"I'm scared," she tells him honestly, finding it easier to admit that notion to a stranger, than to her closest confidants. "I don't know what I'll do without them."

"I meant your leg, but that's—I'm sorry."

"I know what you meant." Bella swallows thickly and wipes her running makeup from beneath her eyes, wipes her hands on her black dress. She shifts on the wood and crosses her legs toward Edward, briefly regards the frown on his face until she can't take the pity there any longer. She heaves out a breath and stares back into the river. "I just—I'm the strong one and, tonight, it's hard to be that way. I just had to get that out."

"What exactly have I walked into here?"

"It's the end of summer—we do this every summer, have since high school. But, well, it's come to an end." Bella drinks the last of the beer in her bottle and throws it over her shoulder onto the bank. Edward offers her his and she refuses, but he presses it into her hand. "Thanks." She takes a swallow and nods at him, nods over in the direction of the fire and her friends. "This – what you've walked into – is two days before Ben and Angela marry, a week before Jessica moves to Los Angeles, and ten days prior to Mike and Eric starting graduate school."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"A name is a good start," Edward tells her with a smile.

"Oh, Jesus. Look at me, dumping all of my ridiculous baggage all over you and, shit—I'm Bella." She sets their beer down between them on the unlevel wood and wipes her hand on her dress to rid the condensation before extending it to him. He shakes it, and shakes his head, and she likes his smile. "You're Edward."

"I am."

"Well, Edward, I'm sure Jessica didn't bring you here to be my therapist, so—"

"I don't mind."

"Well, I do. Let's get back."

When they return, Eric steals her hat and Mike gives her a beer, and she sits between Angela's knees on the dock. Edward smiles at Jessica and talks to Ben, and soon he's strumming a guitar, writing the soundtrack for their last evening along the river. She looks at him every now and again, when his voice warms her like the beer and memories do, and she wants to know his last name, how he ended up here. Instead, she moves to sit by his side and leans her head against his shoulder. He's new in the company of old, but he fits, and she doesn't remember where she used to lay her head or how they had these nights without his voice.

Edward sets his guitar aside and no one, save for Bella, notices when the music stops – they're all in the river, their clothes on the dock, and she would be, too, if she weren't so dazed by his sound, his warmth. He moves closer then, hotter, and she lets herself be taken and pulled into his lap. He wraps his arms around her shoulders, she traces over the sparse hairs on his knuckles, and it's the only part of the night that feels right to her, that doesn't feel somber.

"Who are you?" he asks, his lips in her hair. "Tell me everything that they know. Make me one of them."

And, she does. She starts with the basics – name, age, favorites – and moves on to family – her absentee mother and her close relationship with her father. From there, she talks of life goals and big dreams, and circles back around to her childhood and to the people she's saying goodbye to. She tells him why she isn't leaving, why she doesn't feel bad about staying, how her place is in Forks carrying on her grandmother's legacy in the small antique shop in the middle of town. She wanted this life, but she wanted them in it, and she can't abandon what she's worked for on a whim, on a pile of memories. She talks for hours, until her friends have long since fallen asleep on the dock and Edward knows her framework.

Then, Edward tells her the most basic fact about himself – "I, um, I travel—I'm a musician." – and Bella's stomach clenches. "I leave in a few hours—for Portland," he tells her quietly, as if he knows how the words have spread their fingers wide and twisted her insides. "I'm always leaving."

"Why doesn't anyone stay?"

"Because then we'd have nothing to come back to." Without preamble or much thought, he kisses the side of her neck and breathes her in. She leans her back further against him, and tilts her head to capture his lips. They taste bittersweet, much like the whole of the night has been, but they're warm and a memory and she's clinging to all that she has. She kisses him hard, her fingers inching up beneath his knit hat to intertwine with his hair, and twists to straddle his lap as the sun rises.

Everyone awakens with the light and leaves, not disturbing the tangled almost-strangers beside the still-burning fire; they let her have this, because they know she's not as strong as she seems. And when Bella and Edward pull apart at last, they notice their absence, and he wipes her tears. She nods and kisses him again.

"Let me come back to you," he breathes and his words hit her lips as they form a smile. "I want to come back to you."

The night and her childhood end at his words, at the way she kisses the mouth from where they came, and the fire dies, but a spark remains.

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Since I'm about to wrap _Porcelain Heart_, I figured I'd toss another bit of insanity into the mix.  
Reviews & comments are always welcome, even if you just want to bitch at me for starting something new or how clichéd it is for Edward to be a musician.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

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**Saturday – September 3, 2005 – Forks, Washington**

The room is awash in candlelight, and there is a flow of electricity that courses through the guests there, alighting their laughter and kindling their smiles into warmth. Bella doesn't burn the same way, though, and she hasn't since the moment she lost Edward's touch, the crackle and glow of his lips and hands. She's empty ashes of regret, having faltered in the early morning sun to beg for a way to reach him, to find him. Left with the feeling of a ghost on her skin, the memory of his touch fading with each day, she wonders if she'll ever see his hands again, ever feel them. She can't believe she's so invested in those hands. Losing herself to thought, Bella wraps her arms tightly around her middle, as if they'll be enough or the same, and she feels fried.

"Some turnout, huh? Nearly the whole of the town came to see me off – aside from Ang and Ben, those twats."

"They're honeymooning. Clearly, you're not going to fault them for that." There's an edge to Bella's voice, but it's flat, too, and Jessica can't tell if she's joking; it doesn't help that Bella isn't looking her in the eye. Then, wholly absent in tone, Bella remarks, "This is redundant, you know."

"That was saying goodbye to _us_, while this is saying goodbye to _me_. Surely, you know there's a difference." Jessica is expressing her words with grand hand gestures – sweeping and pointing and clasping – in a bid to engage Bella, but Bella's eyes are on the crowd, still. Unknowingly, she looks for bronze, for that color unique to Edward in the firelight, and doesn't see it. Jessica notices her distance, her frown. "Did you get stood up?"

"No." Bella matches Jessica's stare at that, and smiles lightly, unconvincingly, as she shakes her head. Her laugh sounds dry and forced, not at all like the disbelieving chime she aims for. "No, I'm just feeling off, I guess."

"Aw, chin up, Bellissima." Jessica gives out a sound of soft pity and stretches her arms wide, pulls Bella to her. The frown isn't about Jessica or endings, but she gives herself over to the arms that fold around her. She thinks it's nice to be touched, but then she thinks of his hands and how it isn't nearly the same. Softly, Bella sighs, and Jessica rakes fingers through her hair as she whispers, "I'll be back for Christmas."

"Right," Bella replies, her throat going oddly tight. She thinks about correcting Jessica, telling her what's plaguing her, but it all sounds so ridiculous in her head, and she thinks Jessica might be offended if Bella's frown weren't over her leaving. She doesn't know how to phrase the words, anyway, to make them sound like she isn't luststruck and foolish. Asking his last name, how Jessica knows him, how she might be able to contact him; it all seems too ridiculous. She's uncertain if he'd even welcome her call; he didn't ask for a way to reach her, either. With a frown, she says, "Um, do you mind if I go up to your room? I just—I think I just need a minute to collect myself or something."

"Oh, sure, sure. No problem." There's a caring sort of whine that touches her words and Bella identifies it as pity; she doesn't like it and forces a smile in hopes it will stop. It does and Jessica lightly says, "Just, uh, excuse the mess. You know, last minute packing and all that."

On her way to the staircase, Bella weaves through the crowd, exchanging smiles and polite hellos. When she runs into Mike, he's pleasantly inebriated, dancing with his hands in the air. His arms wrap around her before she can thwart his attempts, and it doesn't hurt her to sway her hips and grin widely up at him, taking in his childish, carefree side while she still can, before he's gone, too – sans an elaborate party to send him off.

"You're a goof," she shouts over the music.

Mike segues from the Lawnmower to the Sprinkler for her viewing pleasure. She laughs, forgetting her self-inflicted worries for the first time all night, and tugs on his biceps in an attempt to stop him. In fact, though, she could watch him make a mockery of dancing all night long. She did so at Ben and Angela's wedding on Tuesday, and felt the wrath of it Wednesday morning at work. Bella has since become a firm believer that no one should marry midweek and had she known there would have been a repeat performance of Mike's stellar moves on a weekend, she would've left at nine o'clock, like the ever-respectable bride and groom did. As Mike moves through his carefully practiced rotation to the Shopping Cart, Bella kisses his cheek and leaves him to ham it up all on his own. If she needs to laugh again later, she thinks, she'll return to him; surely, no one will be going home with the man in the center of the room doing the Cabbage Patch.

At the base of the stairwell, Eric pokes a finger into Bella's still-smiling cheek and offers her a shot of tequila. She turns it down, but takes the half-full beer from his grasp. He doesn't complain, merely tips an invisible hat in her direction and scoots out of her path. She tells him she'll find him later, if she's up for a shot at any point.

The second floor of the Stanley's home is much quieter than Bella expects. There isn't a stereotypical bathroom line, there aren't any couples who have stolen away to roll around on sheets that belong to someone else; she has the floor to herself, if she doesn't count the family Labrador, who has been cordoned off in the master bedroom. She takes her time in the hallway, looking at framed family photographs that adorn the walls. She remembers Jessica at each age she's been captured at, and her heart starts to feel a little heavy. Distracted by lust or not, Bella is certainly going to miss Jessica. When she gets home, she'll remind herself to draw big, red happy faces across the week of Christmas on her calendar. She wonders if Jessica will change by then, like she did in the photos that span the time between summer and winter on the wall. She closes her eyes and takes a sip of Eric's beer, before walking off.

Jessica's room is a battlefield. Clothes and shoes dot the floor, half-packed boxes cover mostly every surface, her bed is stripped of sheets but covered in knickknacks and mementos. She sits on the edge of the four-poster and brushes the back of her hand over their high school year book from sophomore year. She knows that in the upper right-hand corner of page four, she told Jessica that they'd be best friends forever and always, and that she'd better keep in touch. She smiles at the thought and rummages through Jessica's purse on her desk for a tube of lipstick. She writes the same sentiment across Jessica's bathroom mirror in bold, pink lettering, and smiles at it as it reflects back at her. She downs the rest of the warmed beer, then applies the same color to her smirking mouth, and leaves the light on in the bathroom as she goes.

Lipstick still in hand, she takes her place again at the corner of Jessica's bed, absently twists the bottom of the tube to make the stick rise and fall as she stares at the bare walls. They once were covered in posters of bands, movie stars, men in general that the two of them lusted after. Angela always blushed when she would enter, the bare chests of male models being so foreign to her sheltered upbringing, and Jessica and Bella would get their kicks finding the raciest photos in Seventeen and CosmoGirl and plastering them within eyelevel. She laughs, now, thinking about all the things that Ben is showing her, at eyelevel or otherwise, on their honeymoon, and smiles brightly as she goes to tuck the lipstick back in Jessica's bag.

She doesn't know how she missed it the first time, the ticket stub sitting in plain sight in the top of Jessica's purse. She had to have reached past it to steal the lipstick, and her breath catches as she drops the tube in favor of the small rectangular paper. It's creased in the middle and the edges are rounded from being shoved in the pocket of Jessica's jeans, and as she unfolds it, she can feel her heart kicking in her chest. Her eyes go to the date before anything else, and she nearly buzzes with glee when she sees August 28, 2005 printed boldly in the center of the stub. Next, she reads El Corazón, a bar she's been to time and again off I-5 in Seattle. Her palms sweat and her chest feels so heavy, and she squints her eyes until they're nearly closed, almost afraid to read the next bit. Then, she does, and she's so let down, because it doesn't say Edward at all; it says Jasper Whitlock. The little voice in her head tells her it's not so bad. She at least has a place to begin, now. At that, she smiles. Feeling a pop of a spark beneath her skin, she pockets the ticket stub and goes off in search of Eric.

"I think I'd like that shot now," she tells him when she finds him, sprawled across the laps of three women on the sofa in the den. He smiles and apologizes to his legion of ladies in waiting, and kisses each of them on their cheeks before he rises. She takes his arm, her hand settling in the crook of his elbow, as he walks her to the kitchen. There, she says, "Make it a double."

"Bad night, huh?" he asks, cocking his head in a sympathetic puppy kind of way.

"No, actually," Bella grins as she replies, "it's not bad at all."

"Don't let Jessica hear you say that," Eric laughs in return. "She'll behead you if you're not mourning the loss of her sparkling personality."

Bella twists her lips into a wry sort of smile and takes the shot glass from Eric's pinched fingers. They clink the tiny plastic cups together and toss back the amber colored contents, wincing and wishing for lime when they're through.

"I always forget how horrible that is," Bella cringes, sourly licking at her lips.

"And you always will." Eric laughs as he tells her this, and pats her on the back all sympathetic-like. "Want another?"

"_God, no_."

"Alright, well, how about we go save poor Michael from himself before he messes up any chance he's got for getting laid tonight?"

"There's kind of no harm in saying it now, since they're both leaving," Bella whispers, leaning closer to Eric in the at-capacity kitchen, "but I have it on good authority that Jessica's always wanted Mike to mourn the loss of more than her sparkling personality."

"What does that even mean?" Eric laughs heartily and downs another shot. "Hold on, I'm trying to get as drunk as you are, so that it might make sense." Eric taps his foot and Bella gives him a shove with her hands flat on his abdomen, but it's for naught. He stands stone still and shakes his head. "Yeah, no, still not making sense."

"She wants to, like, _do_ him. Always has," Bella spits in a half-laugh, half-whisper, and it's entirely too loud. Mike, who is so badly Moonwalk-ing nearby, looks over and shoots them both a drunken grin. Bella falls against Eric's chest in a fit of laughter. "Too late now, I guess."

"That's really a shame." Eric says the words with an entirely serious tone to them, and Bella's waiting for the punch line, but it doesn't come. Instead, he tucks her hair behind her ear and whispers, "Always follow your dreams, kid. Even if they're as silly as having a thing for Mike Newton."

Later, Bella stares at her spinning ceiling and Eric's words echo in her head, mix with Edward's face, and Jasper Whitlock's name. She may not follow her dreams, but she'll find the man who haunts them, and she falls asleep with a lopsided grin on her lips.

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This took a bit of time, because I wanted to get it right. Sorry about that.  
Any feedback is always welcome & appreciated.

Big thanks to ss10 for the prereading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

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**Tuesday – September 6, 2005 – Forks, Washington**

Bella sips her coffee slowly, dreadful of what's laid before her on the long oak table. Wrinkled cardboard boxes with dented edges are stacked higher than her brow, the tops of them open and overflowing, and she knows what's inside – a hand mirror with gold inlay that she played with at tea parties as a girl; a porcelain doll whose face, forever frozen in an expression of wonder, that she feared in her childhood; the jewelry box with creaking hinges from which her grandmother, Helen, had pulled pearls for her to play with. Things which Helen left to her dearest friend in all the world, Abigail, when she passed on, have been returned home, and Bella feels the pit of her stomach drop out. Abigail Billings died on Sunday.

It's sickening, she thinks, that it takes the death of someone dear to stop her mind from circling back to Edward, to the unknown Jasper Whitlock, and the ticket stub pulsing in her back pocket, but she welcomes it. She relishes, savors the weight lifted from her mind, the way her heart aches differently, swollen with loss. She nearly smiles but stops herself, then looks to the work before her. The boxes won't unpack themselves, won't put their contents on display, and she reaches for the first newspaper-wrapped item. It's a bundle of forks from a set of silver and one she hasn't seen before, and she loses herself in the treasures of this woman's life, gives them the care they deserve. Methodically, she unwraps, categorizes, catalogues, photographs, displays, and she's happy to let her mind be engulfed by the monotony; she works through the morning, into the afternoon, and when Eric shows up with turkey on rye, she has to be pulled away.

"Don't make me shove this sandwich down your throat in a mildly obscene manner," he threatens, aiming the plastic-wrapped sandwich in her direction like a cocked pistol, one eye closed to get his aim. Bella rolls her eyes indignantly and sets down a bundle of unused postcards from New York City circa 1950. "Good girl," he laughs, tossing her the sandwich. "They didn't have any mayo, sorry."

"How does a two-bit diner not have mayo?" Eric shrugs and takes a bite of his own sandwich as he sits in the swivel chair behind the register. She turns over an empty milk crate and sits atop it, picks apart her food to toss Eric the tomato – she hates the way it makes the bread soggy. He should know better, she thinks, but she doesn't really care. "Mayo's, like, a staple for all of their menu items."

"I leave and the whole place goes to shambles," Eric sighs dramatically, kicking his feet to spin the chair while he eats the slice she's given him. His boot nearly connects with Bella's lunch and she stops him with the clearing of her throat and nothing more. "Sorry," he offers, and takes another bite of his sandwich. "There're fries in the bag, if you want them."

"Thanks." Bella pulls a handful of crinkle-cut fries from the grease-soaked paper bag. "So, yeah, when exactly do you abandon ship?"

"Mike's meeting me here in an hour or so with the Party Bus."

"His mother's ancient minivan is not now, nor has it ever been, a _Party Bus_." Eric laughs along with her, remembering the time they'd stolen it as teens and it broke down before they even left the driveway. Bella sighs and smiles, reaches over to ruffle his hair. "I'm going to miss you, you know."

"Ditto."

They eat in silence for a while, passing the bag of fries back and forth until they're all gone. When they've finished, Bella collects the trash quickly, knowing Eric's shameful record of missed free throws, and drops it into the bin before he has the chance to get off a shot. When she turns back around, he's poised to throw a balled up invoice at her head, but she threatens him with a pointed finger and he knows what a violent tickler she can be.

"That's what I thought," she grins, returning to her milk crate. Eric props his feet up on her knees and she ties his shoelaces into various boating knots. After a while, she looks up at him, at the smile on his face, and she feels compelled to tell him once more. "I really am going to miss you."

"Hey, come on. You've still got Ang and Ben."

"I know. But, you know, it's—I kind of feel like you're the only one who's really understood me."

"I'm just better at seeing through the bullshit." He pulls her up by her arms and she folds herself up neatly on his lap, his arms encasing her shoulders and making sure she doesn't slip. "Like, when I got here—you never work that hard, Bell."

"It's Abigail's stuff—"

"All the more reason for you to put it off for days and days; you were close to her." Eric looks Bella square in the eyes and she stares back, her mouth pinching because she knows the look, knows what he's going to say next. "What's going on?"

"Can I deny? Deflect? I mean, you're leaving in an hour. All will be forgotten once you're living it up in the Party Bus."

"If you don't tell me, I'll lock you in said Party Bus… with Mike… and his mother's collection of ABBA." He says it with such a degree of seriousness in his tone that Bella actually shudders, adds a small gagging noise for effect. She's considering crying, "_No! Not ABBA! Anything but ABBA!_" when he clears his throat and says, "Come on, what's up?"

"It's stupid, really."

"If it's bothering you, it's not stupid." Bella sighs and wriggles in his grasp to pull the ticket stub from her back pocket. She presses it into Eric's hand. He looks at it, turns it over and over, then says, "What's this?"

"My dilemma." It doesn't seem as if a light bulb clicks on in or above Eric's head, so Bella says, "You know, that Edward guy," and it pains her to reduce him to such a generic title. "This has all got to do with him."

"Wait." All of the lights click on in Eric's head. "That guy you made out with at the bonfire?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't just—I'm, like, seriously smitten."

"And what does—um—_August the twenty-eighth, El Corazon, Jasper Whitlock, no cameras_ have to do with him?"

"I haven't a clue, but I got it out of Jess' purse and it's from the night that she brought him—from the smitten bonfire night, and it's really my only link to him, I think." Somehow, as she explains, the crease in Eric's brow returns, and it seems like he understands less and less the more she speaks. "We didn't—I didn't give him my number or anything, and he's a traveling musician, and the dates match up and I think this could have to do with him. I want to Google."

"So, Google."

"Isn't that creepy, though?" Bella gets to her feet and begins pacing the space behind the counter, her fingers weaving through her hair to press against the sides of her scalp. "I mean, if he wanted me to have his number or, like, contact him, he would've given it to me, right?"

"Well, why didn't you give him yours?"

"Because I was in a daze of lust and severely lacking sleep."

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe he was in the same boat and maybe he's Googling _Smokin' Hot Antique Shop Bella from Forks, Washington_ at this very moment?" Bella rounds then, her brown eyes larger than normal and her mouth in a perfect O. "Exactly. Google him. Quick, before he finds the wrong Bella." He jiggles the mouse on the register computer and the shooting stars screen saver dissipates, giving way to the desktop. He double-clicks on Internet Explorer and pats his lap. "Here, I'll even hold your hand as you do it."

"That might make it a little hard to type," she replies dryly, hesitantly saddling up on Eric's thigh. He bounces her once, then rubs her shoulders boxing coach-style, and she places the ticket stub in the keyboard above the number keys so it's staring right back at her. With a heaving breath, she says, "Here we go," and types _Jasper Whitlock_ into the search engine and presses Enter.

"He has a MySpace!" Eric exclaims and Bella looks over her shoulder to shoot him an odd glance. "What? I'm a little excited. It's like we're playing detective."

"You're such a dork." Bella clicks on the link for Jasper's MySpace profile and when his default photo loads and Edward's beside him in it, she lets out an, "Oh my god, it's him!"

"Who's the dork now?" Eric snorts, bouncing her again. "Scroll down. See if Eduardo is in his Top Friends." She scrolls and Eric points and they high-five. "There you go, ma'am. Send him a message."

"What the hell am I going to say? _Hi, this is Bella. You mouth fucked me and then disappeared into the wild blue yonder. Let's do it again_?"

"I'd respond to that." Bella slaps his chest and Eric chuckles a little. "What? _Mouth fucking_ is a powerful bit of language, a veritable gem of verbiage."

"When do you leave again?" Bella grins sarcastically, and it's perfect timing; Mike pulls open the door just as Eric is pinching her cheek in return. "Right now, huh? It hasn't been an hour."

"Almost," Eric tells her, pointing to his watch. He looks over at Mike and asks, "She all packed?"

"The van?"

"No, your mom."

"Oh, look! Tour dates!" Bella interrupts the ridiculous boy banter, her heart thrumming in her chest at possible contact. Eric and Bella both lean in, their eyes glued to the list she's scrolling through, and their mouths wear matching frowns. "He's not coming anywhere near here."

"Who's not?" Mike asks, hopping up onto the counter.

"Edward. Well, Jasper, actually." Bella says the words distantly and waves her hand, she's took engrossed in what's on the screen – photos of Jasper and Edward and guitars and gig boxes and vans and fast food stops. "God, he's pretty. And I'm a giant idiot."

"You're not. Blame it on the lusty sleep or whatever," Eric says comfortingly, a hand rubbing circles on her back. "Look, I'll make you a deal." She turns, her brow cocked, and he gives her a warm smile. "You write him and gauge his interest, and if he is, in fact, interested, I'll take you to a show myself. Even if it's in," he squints at the screen, "El Paso, Texas. I mean, as long as it's on a weekend and we can cash in airline miles for the plane fare."

"Really?" She's excited and she can't even begin to push it down – her grin is so wide that the apples of her cheeks start to burn. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, then up to his neck, and she's squeezing entirely too hard. He kisses the top of her head and she tells him one last time, "I'm so completely going to miss you terribly every single day forever."

From there they all hug and say their goodbyes, and she takes a vintage beer sign off the wall in the shop and tucks it into the back of the Party Bus – "Something to adorn the walls in your new place." They honk and wave as they pull away from the curb, and she wraps an arm around her middle and waves back until they're gone from sight.

She's rattled then, losing two more of her friends to the world, and the thought of contacting Edward; she closes the shop early and treks home. There, she calls Eric for a pep talk as she pulls up Edward's profile once more, and when she tires of hearing his cheerleading, she hangs up. Phone in hand, she stares at the screen. With a long sigh and the kicking of her heart in her chest, she queues up the messaging screen and types, "Bonfire Bella," into the subject line. The body of the message is her phone number and nothing more.

For hours, she waits, her eyes fixed to the screen of her phone, and nothing happens, it doesn't ring. She lays it on the desk and paces the small space of her room; nothing, still. She tries to read, but glances at the screen between each paragraph. She turns it on vibrate, but that doesn't help either – the noise isn't the problem, it's the lack thereof. Finally, she grabs her keys and heads back to the store, back to Abigail and her belongings. She knows she can lose herself to the gems buried deep in the boxes – at least, she hopes she still can. She leaves her phone behind.

When it finally rings, she's not there.

* * *

Thanks for reading, sweethearts.


End file.
